


Classy

by Marrilyn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Classy Loki, F/M, Fornicate, Fornication, Gen, Language, Loki Is Classy, Mewling Quim, Misunderstandings, No Sexual Content, Prince Loki, Proper Loki, Wish There Was Though, class, classy, just mentioned, proper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Reader (and Tony Stark) doesn't understand Loki's proper speech.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr.  
> http://imagine-it-like-this.tumblr.com/post/150702851814

“Yeah… ” Tony stares for a moment before taking a sip of his ridiculously overpriced drink. “I have no idea what you just said.”

Loki rolls his eyes at the mortal’s idiocy. For someone who claims to be a genius, Stark can be quite dumb.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say nonchalantly. “You’ll get used to it. I mean, half the time I have no idea what he’s talking about. I just agree with everything he says so I don’t look stupid, and Google it later on. Can’t tell you how many times I agreed to stupid shit because I didn’t understand a word of what he’d said.”

Loki frowns at you, shades of disappointment creeping onto his features.

 _Not you, too,_ you’re certain echoes throughout his mind.

Suddenly, things are starting to make sense. All those times you snapped at him for getting you into crazy shit that you seemed into when he suggested it are becoming clearer. Of course you were pissed, for example, that one time he brought you along for an assassination. You had no idea what the hell he’d said. You just said yes to get it over with.

“What?” you say defensively, rolling your eyes at Loki’s incredulous expression. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You take in a calming breath. _It’s not his fault,_ you tell yourself. Of course he’s shocked. The sane, reasonable part of you is aware that this is normal. His reaction is normal. He just learned that his girlfriend lied to him to make herself look better. That kind of thing takes some time to process.

“Look, I’m sorry for not talking to you about it. I just didn’t want you to think I’m stupid.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “Do you honestly believe I would stoop so low as to think of you as such?”

You shrug. “You’re a prince. You’re proper and sophisticated and classy, and I'm… I’m a simple girl. A guy annoys me, I tell him to go fuck himself. Meanwhile, you’re there telling him to go fornicate with himself, fondly. I mean, really? _Fondly?”_

“I do not say _fornicate,”_ he says defensively.

“You just did,” you point out, scrunching up your nose in disgust. “And it sounds so… _you.”_

Loki rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”

You have to agree with that.

“When have I ever even given you the impression that I would think less of you for not being royalty?”

“You never did,” you say. It’s true. You and Loki may be of different classes, but that had never come between you. “It’s just… You’re so smart and I'm… well, not.”

“That is not true,” he insists. “I never would have gotten involved with you if I thought that you lack intelligence.”

Any other time such compliments would make you melt. Now they’re only making you more uncomfortable, and – holy shit, did Tony really just try to hide his laughing fit behind that tiny glass of scotch that barely even covers his mouth? Who died and let him creepily watch you and Loki talk? Last time you checked, that’s Heimdall’s job.

“Leave us alone, Tony,” you bark.

“Nope. My house, my rules,” Tony says, then shrugs before downing the rest of his drink and setting the now empty glass on the nearby table.

You shoot him your deadliest glare, the one that has killed before.

“Leave us the fuck alone,” you growl, “or I will take that glass and ram it down your throat!”

Loki snorts mockingly, prompting Tony to shoot him a pointed, threatening look before throwing his hands up in surrender as his eyes settle back on you. He knows better than to pick on you when you’re in one of your moods. He likes his home neat and clean, thank you very much. After last time, he’s not willing to risk another outburst. Just because he’s a billionaire doesn’t mean he likes having to redecorate his house every time you come to visit.

He rolls his eyes as he exits the room, muttering things that sound suspiciously like “bitch” and other similar, worse pleasantries. Not that you care. You’ve been called even worse.

“You really mean what you said?” you say to Loki, now that you’re alone.

“When have I ever lied to you?”

A few things come to mind. Dying, the real reason he tried to subjugate the Earth, dying again, pretending to be his asshole daddy for months before it dawned on him that maybe, just maybe he should tell you he’s not really dead. You’d think that watching you cry at the smallest of things and threaten bloody murder to anyone who dared to even look at you funny every day, for months to no end, would ring a bell, or ten, that that isn’t the healthiest way to deal with the death of a loved one. A loved one that isn’t exactly dead, as he'd led you to believe.

Let’s just say grief doesn’t suit you.

Also, let’s just say that you still aren’t over that one. Loki will have do do plenty more to make it up to you. Perhaps his plan, you think bitterly, should have involved letting you know that he wouldn’t really die when he pretended to so very, very realistically.

“Don’t answer that,” Loki says hastily. He has enough sense to put a stop to a tirade he knows you would love to launch on. “What I wanted to say is, yes, I mean what I said. I do not think you stupid. I have never thought of you as such, and I never will. Granted, you tend to be quite dense from time to time, but that doesn’t appear to be a common occurrence so I don’t count it as lack of intelligence.”

You stare at him in complete and utter disbelief. “Gee, thanks. That was so comforting,” you say sarcastically.

Loki exhales exasperatedly. “What do you want me to say?”

“Something simple. Something… not classy. You know I love you, babe. I’d love you even if you were an illiterate hick with a funny accent and missing half his teeth." On second thought, though… "Okay, maybe I’d draw a line at the teeth thing, but you know what I mean.”

He snorts at the comparison, and you are quick to follow with a smile of your own.

“But sometimes,” you continue, “you overdo it with the class.”

He raises a curious eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“See? Even the way you just said that was classy.”

“I only said _pardon.”_

“And you said it classy-ly.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

 _“I don’t think that’s a word,”_ you repeat after him, putting on a mock, fake accent that is supposed to be a parody at his, but ends up being a miserable failure.

You were never good at this. Impressions are Loki’s thing, his way of entertaining you while pissing people (mostly the Avengers) off for the kicks.

He bursts into laughter. “I do _not_ sound like that.”

“Whatever!” you snap.

He rolls his eyes in an overly dramatic manner.

“My god,” you say, wildly throwing your arms around. “Even you eye roll is so… proper.”

That prompts him to laugh. Yes, he’s definitely laughing at you. If he didn’t think you were stupid before, he certainly does now.

You sigh. “The point is… Do you have to be so classy all the time? Do you really, really have to? Come on. As your girlfriend, I should be able to understand you.”

Loki breathes. "Alright,” he gives in, though you can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “I will try to speak more… Midgardian-ly.”

“I don’t think that’s a word,” you echo, shooting him a smile to let him know you appreciate his efforts.

His only reply is a smirk.

Suddenly, you remember something he never, not even after countless interrogation sessions you’d conducted, demanding an answer, wants to explain, always smirking and looking pleased at your unfulfilled curiosity that he always manages to make even bigger.

You scowl at him, and he’s quick to frown in confusion, mentally preparing himself for the possible blow.

“What does _mewling quim_ mean?”

Smirking once again, the look you’d grown to know so well and sometimes, when he isn’t being an asshole, love, he gives in and, just like you asked, explains in pure, simple English, in exactly the way you’d say it if you were him, what the two words you asked about mean.

A part of you wishes he never told you.


End file.
